Dance It's Inevitable
by BeyondCanon
Summary: She comes in while you're stretching. She doesn't look at you, at all. But you look at her, at tanned skin and raven hair. She doesn't seem the type to dance.


I

Dance. One, two, three, four. Let the gentleman lead the way. One, two, three, four. His right hand guides you gently and firmly as it rests on your back; his left hand is joined with your right hand; your left hand rests on his shoulder. One, two, three, four, and turn. He is the frame and you are the picture. Look away and let your body distance itself from him.

Dance. It's all you know how to do. One, two, three, four. Your long blonde hair moves when you turn your back to the gentleman. He has to follow you to win you back. Dancing can be a love story. One, two, three, four, and commanding hands make you turn. One, two, three, four. Your blue eyes and his black eyes connect without really connecting. You're an actress, in a way.

Dance. One, two, three, four. You sometimes wonder when it came to this. You breathe dance; you are dance. The gentleman dictates the pace and only he must lead. Your feet are light as you cross the room together. One, two, three, four. The hours are long and the training is exhaustive; you don't have time for much else.

Dance. It's all you want to do. You dreamt about making a career of it, while you're still young and pretty. One, two, three, four. You got your dream; you don't know what follows. The gentleman pulls you closer and you stare at each other as the music fades. You hear the applause around you, breath erratic, and you put on a smile.

II

She comes in while you're stretching. She doesn't look at you, at all. But you look at her. There aren't many new people in your life; your social circles are tight and exclusive. She has tanned skin and you marvel at the tone. Her black hair is up and she looks professional. You imagine her one, two, three, four, dancing around you. She doesn't seem the type to dance.

She's talking to the producer. You continue your routine; stretching your legs and touching your toes. You can barely remember the last time you went out with someone who had never spent six hours a day rehearsing for something. No, she's not the type. She's marble and professionalism, beauty and distance.

She looks at you so very quickly; there's turmoil. You feel it rising inside you, from your gut to your stomach to your heart. You're inside out. Your eyes are locking for too long and you're out of breath for no reason. You don't look away; you'll look at her as much as you can. She leaves, and you're already a mess.

The producer passes by and you inquire about her. She's new. Of course she's new. She's Public Relations. You don't ask why you would need that. The producer leaves. Continue your routine. Close your eyes. An unsettled mind makes for a poor performance. Empty your mind.

III

Close your eyes. Feel the music. Let the beat dictate your pace. Turn to the gentleman and get into position with him. He's taller than you; that's rare. He's strong and masculine. Latin rhythms demand a powerful lover. His hand goes lower than it should; you pull it back up and turn your face as you settle back in position.

Five, six, seven, eight. You walk together; you're taking steps back as he relentlessly moves forward. Look away again. Your feet sway sinuously as he holds you in place. Five, six, seven, eight. He takes you, conquering the floor as he pulls you closer and you push him away. This is courtship; unrequited, unlimited attention. Walk away from the gentlemen as the music grows faster and he follows.

Five, six, seven, eight. He pulls you against him, toned muscles and assertiveness. You stretch your neck so he can pretend to dive in for a kiss. There's a truth in that lie of yours; you suppose that's art.

You see her in the empty audience. She makes your skin crawl with the way she's taking in your performance. The gentleman reaches for you and you try to forget she's there. Empty your mind. The sequence that follows is challenging enough to clear your head in the effort of performing. Five, six, seven, eight. You love that about dancing. No troubles; no memories; no baggage. You fall to the floor with intention and grace. The gentleman picks you up. No time to think. His legs frame the fast sequence you perform, high heels clicking on the floor.

Dance. Tango is one of your favorites. It's passionate, furious; angry. It's not delicate or soft. It's sensual and rough. Five, six, seven, eight. The gentleman takes you as if you were his possession and you deny him with determination. You dance together, filling the stage, feeling the stage. The music ends; you look at the audience; she's not there anymore.

IV

The lead dancer falls into the welcoming arms of cocaine and tranquilizers and overdoses too fast, too soon. She's crumbling from the inside out; she's not the only one. It's a competitive life, this one. It's abrasive and unforgiving. You have learned by now that you can offer little to ease the inebriation and the despair in some. They will come back to you when they're ready; mind and body clean and the impossible need for forgiveness.

You're the one filling her shoes. You don't do drugs; you barely drink a glass or two of wine when you're in a romantic dinner. Stretch, count to fifteen, pause. Repeat. Every muscle of your body is sore. All you do is rehearse these days. You're the lead dancer in two shows instead of one. It's the type of privilege to arouse intrigue and jealousy; no room for slip-ups. Stretch, count to fifteen, pause. Repeat.

You're on the floor, giving yourself a few minutes to feel every part of your body complain, a dull ache taking over you. You're not expecting it when that woman shows up and gives you a bottle of water. You only realize how thirsty you are after it reaches your throat; you down half the bottle at once. She's still standing when you look at her again, a small smirk on her lips.

She stretches her hand and you take it. It feels soft; the warmth creeps its way up your arm, a different type of feeling than the one you have from too much exercise. You stand up too fast for your liking, but she doesn't break contact once you're eye to eye. Her thumb caresses the back of your hand; you shiver. Your hands lock tight and you look for words, anything to say.

Your heart shatters inside your ribcage. It's the first time you're seeing her so close, observing the irregularities in her skin, the mysterious tone in her eyes, the light touching her black, sultry hair. She's beautiful; you intertwine your fingers.

How long have you been like this? You wouldn't know. There is no time, nothing but the wish to pull her closer and against you. She looks at your lips; nails scratch your hand. You offer her your name; she answers that she knows. A moment of silence falls before she gives away her name and you repeat it, letting it roll off your tongue.

Santana.

V

People are taking their seats. You can hear the faint noise of several simultaneous conversations as someone checks the blue dress you're wearing. It's a bit loose, because you lost six pounds just from the rehearsal schedule, but it is otherwise perfect. No flaws allowed tonight. You close your eyes and focus on your breathing. Inhale. Exhale. Use your diaphragm, fill your lungs completely.

You glance at her figure in a black dress, smiling to sponsors and showing them their seats. Her hair is up, exposing the curve of her neck in unprecedented elegance. She talks to the photographer before answering her phone. The critics arrive with their fancy glasses and expensive haircuts. Maybe your company did need Public Relations after all, especially after the drug scandals and rumors.

This is your big night. You're up in thirty seconds; the music starts and the conversations fade away. The gentleman goes first. You enter the stage right behind him, as if he can't see you. Touch his shoulders; get in position when he turns. He's dressed entirely in black, as elegant as a Persian prince. The steps come easily; the routine was repeated to exhaustion. You can dance to it in your sleep for the next decade. It passes by in a blur.

From your right, the other female dancers appear; from your left, the male dancers. The couples meet in the middle and the chaos starts around you. You used to be one of them until two weeks ago. Now you're in the spotlight. Focus. Let him pull you closer, your back against his front. Pull away. Blend in with the other couples. Shove your gentleman away to dance with another, blond hair matching yours and dangerous proximity. Your gentleman comes after you in jealousy; the lights dim. This is the most intricate part for all.

Dance. You do know how. Steal everyone's attention with your spins and the sharp and fast movement of your feet. Around his legs, under his legs; keep your arms tense and never break the frame. Fall; he picks you up. Fall again; he picks you up and takes you around him until he lands in one knee and the sound of your heels echoes. The music ends; loud applause reaches your ears. It takes you a few seconds to wake from your daze, but you do smile at the crowd standing in ovation.

VI

There's an after party. Of course there's an after party. You must go. They all want to talk to you, see you, hover over you. You're in the dressing room; you practically live here. You barely remember what your apartment looks like. You close your eyes. You like to take a few minutes for yourself every now and then. A soft smile contaminates your lips; you're proud of yourself. It was nothing short of excellent.

Someone sits next to you on the couch; you open your eyes and it's her. You sit straight and she hands you a bottle of water and says something about keeping you hydrated. You don't complain; it's nice that she's looking after you. She smells like Dior. You give the bottle back when you're done and thank her. Her fingers linger a bit too long and you wish she would take your hand again. It's hard not to stare at her lips or at the place where her neck meets her shoulder.

She's going to the after party; it's part of her job. You're suddenly eager to go as well. She doesn't work too closely with you, so you take what you can get. Relax. The imaginary dirt she's picking off your skirt does constitute flirting. A dancer and his boyfriend show up to ask you if you still want a ride. You do. She opens the door for you on your way out.

VII

You're not used to being the center of attention like this. The party unravels around you, in a way. First you toast with the dancers, glasses raised high in celebration, the shared rush of a job well done. The producer spots you and takes you away to talk to some people. The male lead is also there, beer in hand; you smile at each other. Besides him and the choreographer with his margarita, you don't know anyone. Your smile doesn't fade as you're introduced to every single one of them. They are the ones supporting everything financially; they must be pleased.

She arrives. Unlike every other person in this room, she doesn't have a glass in her hand; she's clutching her phone instead. Your eyes go from her elegant shoes to her exposed legs to her insinuation of a cleavage. Her lips are bright red. When your eyes meet, you can see she's hungry for something. She's making small talk; her eyes always return to yours. Nod here and there and laugh at the right time. These are choreographed steps. A small disappointment fills your veins when she gets up and leaves the conversation.

Time flies by. You've been holding an empty glass of wine for too long; people are starting to notice. You excuse yourself to get one more, hoping to find some water as well. If you remember to drink water frequently, things won't get out of hand. Your head feels light already, but you don't let it show.

You glass is full once more. Sip your drink; you do like Merlot every now and then. You hide for a bit near the bar and hope no one notices you. You think of her. You wish she could spare you a moment between all her duties for the night. She passes by; you don't dwell on whether this is coincidence or fate. You stretch your hand out and she sees you in the shadows. Now that you are both wearing heels, you can see she's shorter than you.

She tells you you're hiding and you answer with a maybe. She smiles a bit; you smile right back. She's standing close, invading your personal space, forcing your heart to race uncontrollably. Wet your lips, and her eyes linger too long. You wonder how bold it would be to press her against the wall right then. Or how appropriate it would be to reach for her pulse and to bring her against you as you dive in for a kiss.

Her hand rests on your stomach and you feel your muscles tensing in response. She whispers in your ear that she wishes she had put on a light gloss instead of that red lipstick of hers; she would then be able to kiss you without ruining her makeup. Your free hand goes to the small of her back. You're burning from head to toe; your lips are too close, you feel her breath as your noses touch. She slips her card into your bra and tells you to call. She leaves.

VIII

You don't call her. Shame on you. You're too overwhelmed with the schedule and the performances; days pass by evenly, out of your grasp. Before you know it, you just finished your final performance of the week. Inside the dressing room, you flip a card in your hands. You have looked at it more times than you can tell, memorizing her face as she turned away from you. You still don't know where to take her.

She enters the room and you hide her card in the pocket of your faded jeans. She doesn't say a word; she pulls a chair out in front of you and gestures to your feet. Your brow furrows, but you put your bare feet in her lap anyway. She opens her purse and takes a small tube container out of it. You don't understand this woman.

She uses it to massage your feet and you close your eyes at the sheer relief it brings after endless days of practice for several days of performance. Several minutes pass. It has been ages since anyone has taken the time to do this; you had forgotten how much you love it. Her hands are firm, kneading in slow circles until you can't hold back a moan. You're so satisfied a silly smile plays on your lips.

She says you didn't call. Open your eyes and apologize. You have been busy. She should understand. She puts more lotion in her hands and reaches for your calf; you hadn't realized how tense you were. You're not talking anymore, just sitting back and enjoying her touch. It's wonderful, relaxation spreading through your body, steadying your breathing. When she reaches your knees she stops; you groan in frustration.

She's looking right into your eyes as she tells you she's not going to wait forever. You know. Her hands still rest on your knees, thumb running over your skin. You give her a tired look; you don't know what to say. She's right. You're missing an opportunity. She doesn't look upset as she gets up to leave, but you feel off.

You don't want her to leave. You don't want to keep her waiting. She's too good for that. Get up. The height difference is there. Hold her hand; watch her look at you in soft surprise. You can almost feel your bubbles of personal space, the bridge keeping you apart. Break the distance. Join your lips, timidly, a hand touching her cheek. She stills for a moment before reciprocating, nipping your lower lip. You let out a shaky breath, glad for not being rejected. You grow bolder, adrenaline running fast and intense through you, and grab the back of her neck to bite her lip.

Her hands find your hips to pull you close; you're a mess already. She runs her tongue over your lip and you part your mouth willingly so she can deepen the kiss. There are no words to describe how her tongue rolls against yours, languid, unrushed, exploratory. She's fully against you now. You swear she can feel your heart beating in a frantic percussion, pain and exhaustion draining, pooling at your feet as the kiss goes on.

She pulls away from you, sore lips and erratic breath. You have to seduce her first. You smile at her when she says it; you steal a kiss. She places a finger on your lips. It's going to be harder than that, she says, but she's smiling, and you still have your arms around her. She's going to wait for your call.

IX

You don't know anything about her. You want to. Why she chose her field of work; if she can dance and how she moves her body; her favorite pizza; where she grew up; what music she listens to at night. You know nothing. You're talking to a few dancers after rehearsal, or you should be talking to them; all you see is her in a corner and how her blouse hugs and flatters her body. She's talking on the phone, looking straight at you, devouring you from a distance.

Your mouth feels dry. Break away from your group; reach your locker to grab some water. Listen to her steps behind you, to the whining of metal when she rests her back against a locker close to yours. Pretend you can't smell her perfume. Take the water bottle and close your locker, so your eyes can meet.

You're nervous. You don't know why. She turns to you, still holding her phone to her ear; she comes closer. Drink some water. Try not to remember the kiss: the feeling of her lips, her perfume, her hands against your back, a handful of clothes to pull you closer. Don't look at her lips as she talks; drink more water. She takes one step in your direction, entering your personal space, too close for comfort.

You wish you could read her mind. She's unexpected, unpredictable, a woman of planned impulsivity. Turn to her; you're face to face. She talks on the phone as she runs her finger down your arm, giving you shivers. The call ends; her phone goes to the back pocket of her pants. It's just you and her, now. She asks you how she should dress for later. You could kiss her if you wanted; she's barely inches apart. You say she should dress however she wants. It's no big deal.

Except it is, going out together for the first time. Her fingers touch your arm, her mouth hovers over yours; it's hard to focus. You asked her out. You're taking her out on a date tonight. It's been too long since you last did it, truth be told. You don't want to recall the disaster in your last relationship. You barely remember it at the moment, looking at her, mouth partially open. You start to dive in for a kiss when she takes a step back and says she'll see you later.

X

The night is fresh and clear. You walk next to her; you open the door for her, her hair and the scent of her shampoo brushing against you. The waiter smiles at you and you smile back; you're a regular here. You come here for quiet celebrations and a few glasses of Spanish wine. She chooses a table by the wall.

Sit in front of her. Exchange a few words with the waiter. Watch her fingers trace the menu you're offered; find something to say. You are not the greatest with words; you're better with gestures and silent instinct. You talk about anything until the waiter returns to get your orders. It's just you and her after he leaves, the distant sound of someone else's fork and knife meeting a porcelain plate.

There should be steps for this as well, but courting is a different dance with each person you have been involved with. Tell her about the restaurant and fill the minutes with small, funny stories involving it. She's looking at you sweetly; you feel like you're inside out. She begins to talk, relieving you from the responsibility to carry the conversation.

This feels natural. She grew up in a small Midwestern town, but got out of there as soon as she could; she moved to New York a year ago, from Los Angeles. When the tour gets there, she wants to take you somewhere. She doesn't know New York as well as she should; you have been living here for some time now, you could show her so many places. You could show her so many things. The food arrives; she smiles at you.

She's beautiful. You could just look at her for the longest of times; you could listen to her talk about anything. You try to explain to her the thrill of a stage, the ease of planned steps, the essence of you. She listens intensely without interruption. Maybe she understands. You hope so. Food disappears from your plates. You had barely realized how much time has passed. You split the bill, unhappy to realize your encounter is coming to an end.

Riding a taxi back home, her hand is on your thigh. You say silly things, distracted by your hand over hers, and you get her to laugh a few times. You like the sound of it. Place a kiss just above her ear; she purrs. The car comes to a full stop. You both stand at her door, looking at each other. You're not sure what should happen. You know you earned a good night kiss, but she just might let you in. You never know with her. You bite your lower lip, feeling silly.

She laughs and kisses you. Wrap your arms around her and reciprocate; she fits against you, somehow. Nip her lower lip and enjoy when she bites your lip before kissing you again. Try to keep this appropriate; you're in the middle of the street. She makes it hard when she sighs and grabs your hair. Cool down. She breaks the kiss and tells you goodnight. Goodnight, you answer, dizzy. She enters her building.

XI

You could have been a ballerina, if you wanted. You were two when you attended your first ballet class. Your mother was so proud. You were enrolled in more dance classes than you could count when you were eight. Contemporary dance; jazz; ballroom dance; but ballet took up most of your time and energy. Dancing was everything, from sunrise to dawn.

You got into the School of American Ballet when you were ten. Your parents moved to New York City so you could take that major step. Years passed. Ballet took time beyond your control. You didn't have the best body type; you were becoming too tall; you shouldn't have been there. Your diet was carefully built to keep you as thin as possible. You got into the New York City Ballet; you were still too tall.

You still attended two other dance classes, without anyone's knowledge. It makes you versatile today, the type of dancer everyone wants to have. You still have your pointe shoes. In your apartment there are a few pictures of you performing; you keep them as a reminder. As you pour coffee into two cups, she looks at the pictures. Her hair is loose and she's wearing jean overalls. You have never seen her this informal, but you're not displeased.

You tell her you quit a long time ago. It feels like another lifetime. For several years now you have been happy with small companies and the underground dance circuit. You like to experiment, to have fun while you're at it. You love trying out other styles, different combinations, being part of a team effort instead of an eternal competition. She takes the cup you offer her; the quick brush of your fingertips is startling.

You haven't asked her if she's traveling with the crew. You're not too sure what her job is, to be honest. She implied she would go to your first performance, when talking about Los Angeles; you didn't press the issue. She's still looking at your picture. You were fifteen, then. It's a surprise to her, to see that side of you. She sits next to you on the couch, cradling her cup. Look at her lips; think to yourself you would like to kiss her again.

You have a plane to catch in a few hours. You hope she will go as well; maybe she'll sit with you. Look at her eyes; see an unnamed flash of something before kissing her. She kisses you with intent and drive, moving her head from time to time as if trying every possible angle. Suck on her tongue; the moan she lets out shakes something within you. You don't want to play cat and mice forever.

XII

There is always a moment in which the steps become second nature. You reach that point at your first performance is Los Angeles. Your partner looks at you as you dance towards him; the rest of it is automatic. The turns you make, the determination in your steps, how you throw yourself back in dramatic refusal as he holds you. He makes you spin; fall into another gentleman's arms. Dance with him, your feet going back and forth, eyes never leaving his.

You have two more cities to go before the tour is over. It's your first time going on a real tour, traveling by plane, sleeping in hotels, being properly financed. You have never been to Los Angeles. Stop; the male lead will come for you. This is the highest moment. You can't see his eyes as your feet take several sharp steps around his legs; the lights too bright, focusing solely on you both.

The male lead is on his knees as the performance ends. The applause is enthusiastic; you all smile broadly. You bow several times before it ceases and people start the usual buzz of chatter as they leave. The choreographer shows up to congratulate you. His smile is sincere; you're doing great. He's not regretting the decision to make you his star. You earned this. Los Angeles now knows it.

XIII

She doesn't look at you. The bitter taste of your bile confuses you, because you made no promises to each other. She has contacts with the press there; she's with them. It just might get you media exposure. You all need it. You wipe off your heavy makeup to apply something light, more like you. She wasn't next to you at the plane; instead, she sat with the producer and the choreographer.

The feeling only settles when she walks into the dressing room. But then it expands, heavy in your lungs when she talks about taking pictures for a piece on the company. She doesn't understand. You're tired; the flight had been long; you don't sleep well in hotel beds. She says it should be fast and touches your shoulder softly. The feeling starts to evaporate, as if it never existed. You close your eyes and nod.

At night, when there's only silence and darkness, she enters your room. You wake up from the weight of her in your bed and the rustling of the painfully white sheets. She reaches for you and she kisses you; you pull her closer. Her clothes are light and soft, loose enough to let your hands wander. Hear her panting, the small sounds she makes when your mouth finds her neck. She gets on top of you and kisses you again; her hand finds its way and she touches you until you lose all focus.

XIV

Your fingers tangle in black hair, soft as velvet. You like the intimacy of the gesture, the permission to massage her scalp with the tip of your fingers. She's driving you around; the car belongs to one of her dozens of friends in the city. The sun is bright; it touches her skin and makes it even richer. Look at her ease, the lack of weight on her shoulders as the car makes a turn on those streets that are so familiar to her and strange to you.

She shows you everything. She takes you to her favorite restaurant for lunch, to her favorite ice cream parlor for dessert. She shows you the touristic spots and the hidden places, the theaters and the buildings. She takes you to the beach; it has been the longest time since you have last set your bare feet in warm sand. Sit down and look at the waves. She sits by your side, thighs brushing. Faint music plays somewhere. You feel your muscles giving in after days of exhaustion.

Try to absorb all you can. She's all yours; the attention melts you like snow in a volcano. Smile at her smile. There's a secret thrill to being introduced to something she loves so sincerely as this. She seems to know all there is to know about its history, every gem hidden in every small corner, and she wants to share it with you. You wish you had more time; it's too soon when she gets up and tells you there's still one more stop.

She tells you she misses Los Angeles, but you already realized that. She is in love with the city. The sky is tinged red by the sunset; you have to get back to catch your plane. The Hollywood sign stands tall in front of you and her hand is nestled between yours on your lap. Close your eyes for a moment and kiss her shoulder. You have all kinds of words you want to say. A thank you is all that comes out of your mouth. She covers your lips with hers.

XV

The tour is long. You're either performing or traveling; there isn't much time left for anything else. Dance fills your days and you barely know the difference between one city and another. It's all part of the same blur, one airport after the other, one hotel room after the other. You sleep heavily at night because of the weariness in your muscles.

The crew likes to go out almost every night. They explore every bar, crash every party and meet as many people as they can. They're a fun bunch; you like their spontaneity. You know you've lacked it for years, since back when your routine was set in stone and you were still a ballerina. Maybe it rubbed off on you, in a way; you always get confused when things happen unexpectedly.

You go out with them, of course, but you never drink. You don't want to gain weight, and you don't want to lose consciousness in cities you aren't familiar with. It can lead no nothing but trouble of the wrong kind. You don't need to drink to have fun. You smile and laugh just the same when someone cracks a joke and you can be goofy without any assistance.

You grow used to it. At the third city you forget what it was like before. You feel like you have always been on the road, always on the move. There's a comfort in the anonymity of hotels, cabs, and airports, in not being known or recognized, and there's a thrill in discovering new territories and going to new places. You're good at adapting.

XVI

You wait for her in the dark; every night she invariably comes, when all the others have gone to rest. She touches your face and you kiss her fingers, allowing her to share your sheets. You love the touch of her gown, cool against you. She feels warm, burning you as she searches for your skin. Surrender. She's gentle, careful; she can do no wrong. Cling to her, gasping for breath.

It's a new discovery every night she's with you. It's a conquest, as well, to get her as open and vulnerable as you want her. Her skin meeting yours is a victory you wait no time to bask in. You love the curve of her waist, the small of her back, the valley of her breasts. Make sure to take your time.

She's close to where you need her. You want her; you crave everything she can offer. Restrain, hold back. She mustn't know, not when nothing is said, when it's too feeble and fragile. Kiss her and explore her mouth instead. Bite. She loses grasp for a moment before reaching deep into you.

Her name tumbles from your lips. She looks at you; you wish you could read her. She's as clear as crystal and as unattainable as a goddess. Guide her hand. There's no need to fight for control after pressure builds. Please. Fall apart; she's on top of you, all over you. She mumbles your name several times, hiding in the crook of your neck as you collapse.

XVII

You arrive home and sleep gets the best of you. There's no need to bother unpacking; you can do it later. Your bed calls to you; surrender. You have no appointments right now; no rush. Your favorite, most comfortable blankets are there; undress and get under them. Feel the warmth. Smell yourself in your pillow. The sounds coming in from your window will put you to sleep.

You spend the next day merely existing, sleeping and listening to music. You don't have much time before rehearsals start again. You almost regret accepting the role in that other production; it's the reason you're tired all the time. You weren't rehearsing for a single show; you were doing it for two. Now that you're back, you have a mere week before opening night.

The director really shouldn't trust you this much. But he does, and you're living up to the challenge so far. You met him many years ago, through friends in common; you're used to working with him now. Your chemistry together is always easy and effortless, like a ballroom dance number. He expects you with a cup of coffee in his hands and a smile on his lips.

Your new production is a small one. Your previous one had been much bigger, with a bigger crew, a nicer paycheck and a national tour, partly sponsored by the government's support to the arts. This one is cozier, simpler; you agreed to it as a personal favor to the director. You are the most experienced dancer, and probably the most well known in the scene.

You're stretching when you realize she won't be there. It strikes you hard, and you stop for a moment. You learned to miss her. You want her to pass by casually; to give you a bottle of water when you're tired, to massage your feet after a long day. She's not there to watch you dance like she doesn't have anything else to do with her life but be there in the audience. No one is watching.

XVIII

Call her the moment you get home. Talk to her for the longest time; find out what she's been up to now that she doesn't have to be around dancers the whole day. Learn that she wants to be on the campaign team for some candidate running for Congress. Listen carefully as she rambles on about his agenda and how progressive and intense he is, because she's showing you something in which she truly believes.

You feel warm just by listening to her voice. It's hard to contain your smile. She asks if you want to do something. It's late; you wouldn't want to make her leave her apartment. You're tired; you just wanted to hear her voice. She tells you she can come over and massage your feet, if you want. You miss how she fills the space in the bed besides you and how she undresses you; you agree.

She comes by with a DVD of an eighties teenage movie and you greet her with a kiss. She cuddles with you in bed, massaging your scalp slowly with her fingertips. All your tension and all your troubles vanish as you relax against her. The movie plays in the background, but neither of you are paying too much attention.

In spite of your easy smile and calm behavior, your muscles are always tense. It hurts when she touches your shoulders with pressure and purpose. Let me carry your weight, she whispers in your ear. You turn to her, touched by her offer, and join your lips. Her kindness is hidden for most, but it's there for you to see. She reciprocates, tongue against yours until you sigh in her mouth and stop.

The feeling of her against you lulls you to a peaceful sleep. She's warm, nearly drifting off to sleep as she plays with your hair. For the first time, you're just sleeping together. You're both in your underwear, under the sheets; the way your hand runs along her stomach is nothing but lazy. You have another long day tomorrow. Enjoy this peaceful bliss.

XIX

You like to watch her closely, quite literally. You like to be close to her, see the marks on her skin, the freckles on her shoulders, the arch of her eyebrows; she's made of a myriad of small details you have yet to discover. Her breath is regular as she sleeps beside you, one arm wrapped around you.

You like to wake up next to her. The scent of her comforts and soothes you; the dark tone of her hair contrasts with your yellow sheets. You wish you could find an adjective for her perfume other than sharp, but that's what comes to your mind when you take a deep breath hidden in the crook of her neck. Sharp and strong, like you know she can be.

Your alarm is going to go off in a few minutes and you'll have to start yet another tiring day with tiring routines. You ask yourself why, sometimes. You ask yourself how much of it is because of how you moved and how much is your mother's frustrations being projected onto you as her chance to start over. You wish you knew. But you know you're good at it, and you're not good at a lot.

You imagine the infinite number of other lives you could have had, of everything you could have done if you weren't so intensely dedicated to dancing. You watch her eyelashes and the curve of her nose as you wonder, for the few minutes you have left, what could have been and where you could have ended up. The sound of the alarm fills the room and she wakes up as you turn it off. She has a smile on her face. Suddenly, you're very satisfied with where you are.


End file.
